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“Of course owls can talk,” said the owl. “Everything can talk. It’s simply a matter of learning how best to listen.”
She never swam far enough from shore to understand the dangers of the depths.”
She was born in stillness; she will die in motion. Everything between those points is the tension of the coiled spring, the held breath, the knife in the process of being drawn.
You really can’t go home again. Not all the way. No matter how hard you try.
Every time she starts to feel like the world is getting narrow, like she needs to open herself to let the blackness out, she goes to that memory. She remembers the way it felt: that it wasn’t better, it wasn’t an answer, it solved nothing, but it nearly took everything away.
She, on the other hand, seems to be sliding back and forth along her own timeline, seeking the mental age where she’ll best be able to handle the reality of the situation.
She’s the cold one: she’s the one who can reduce everything to numbers, weighing lives now against lives later.
“You should believe me because if I’m lying, you’re losing your mind. That’s a genuine concern of yours, isn’t it? Little number girl who’s never been able to figure out how humans work, who hears the voice of her brother in her head when she’s scared or lonely. Are you even sure he exists? Maybe he’s something you made up.”
That’s what she’s always wanted, isn’t it? For no one to hurt her.
